


No Just Impediment

by trinityofone



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Crossdressing, F/M, Gender or Sex Swap, Living well is the best revenge, M/M, Magic, Marriage, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:43:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2519561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityofone/pseuds/trinityofone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy, greatly changed, returns to Downton and is reunited with Thomas, who's trying desperately to change.</p>
<p>Naturally, they get married and live happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is long and ridiculous—and the most fun I've had writing anything in ages. This is my first attempt at playing in this sandbox and I'm quite nervous about living up to the standards of a fandom with so much good fic, but I enjoyed myself immensely (and I hope you do too).
> 
> AUish now after 5x06 but really not by much. I'm sure events in the show will go down precisely this way starting next episode. ;-)
> 
> Tremendous thanks to siriaeve for checking this over for American- and anachronisms; any remaining mistakes are my own.

Jimmy Kent stood wincing in front of the mirror and tried to say his name.

He had already been trying for close to an hour. It was no good. Yesterday, when he had first woken up, he had raged, then cried, then raged again; now he was weary. He only wanted to say it: to himself, just once. 

_Jimmy Kent_ , he said clearly, inside his head.

But the voice that broke the deathly silence of the inn’s tiny room—the high, wavering voice, no more his own—insisted: “Jenny Essex.”

* * *

Mrs. Hughes was introducing a new housemaid. He was not remotely interested—and then Thomas, with a jolt, remembered that he _should_ be interested. Instead of slipping out as planned, he smoothed his face into a mask and tried to look all the things he did not feel: warm, welcoming, keen.

She was a tiny blonde thing, more delicate even than Anna, with a wave to the curls that framed her face. She blushed deeply when she saw him, then seemed to resolutely square her shoulders and lift her tiny round chin. “Mr. Barrow,” she breathed.

“Oh, well it seems your reputation precedes you,” said Mrs. Hughes with a chuckle, glancing up at him. “Unless…are you acquainted?”

Thomas couldn’t help his frown. “No.”

“Oh! No,” said the maid. Despite her breathlessness, she had a surprisingly resonant voice. Her mouth twitched at the corner. “Jenny Essex,” she said, “at your service.”

She had not been meeting his gaze, and then suddenly she was. She looked up at him, and Thomas felt something inside his chest twist. He was not one to feel tongue-tied, but the seconds stretched and he could not think of a single thing to say.

“Well,” said Mrs. Hughes briskly, and Thomas saw her shoot him a little frown. “I think that’s enough of introductions.” She’d put a hand to Jenny’s shoulder, was steering her away.

The girl’s head turned. She looked back at him, and their eyes caught again. Thomas found himself taking a little stuttering half-step forward before he remembered himself. He watched as Mrs. Hughes and the girl—Jenny—rounded the corner and were gone.

“Are you quite all right, Mr. Barrow?” Baxter was hovering at his shoulder again.

He turned and had very little trouble affixing one of his best grins. “I’m quite well, actually.”

* * *

Thomas looked terrible.

Once he’d stopped fighting the unbearable urge to return to Downton, Jimmy had turned to anticipating, with a churning combination of eagerness and dread, seeing everyone again—particularly Thomas. Thomas was perhaps his one real friend, but more than that: Thomas was the cleverest man Jimmy knew. If anyone could figure out how to fix this, it would be Thomas. Jimmy might die of embarrassment before he managed it, but if he could withstand this—the endless _looks_ and little offhand _remarks_ of men on the train, the tiny glimpses of his own reflection in the darkened window—then maybe he could survive Thomas seeing him in this state. Knowing that in the end, Thomas would surely solve it—yes, then he could endure.

But Thomas didn’t look in a fit state to solve _anything_. He’d always been pale, but in the weeks since Jimmy had left, he’d somehow come to look like death. His cheeks had grown gaunt, and there were horrible dark circles under his eyes. Bloody Baxter was always bobbing about around him; at one point she even laid a steadying hand on Thomas’ arm—and Thomas didn’t do a thing to stop her. Something was seriously wrong.

Well, two somethings—of course. Jimmy’s something was, he’d have to insist, rather extreme. Being a housemaid was awful. Whatever he was being punished for, or however he was _cursed_ , this had to be an extra part of it: that included in “Jenny Essex’s” things had been references suited solely for _this_. Being a footman had been hard work, but now he found he’d been lucky and never even known it. As a housemaid, he had to get up extra early and light the fires, which made him sooty; after which he cleaned the bedrooms, at the expense of making himself even dirtier. Weren’t girls supposed to be soft and clean? He was absolutely ruining his hands; he seemed to have acquired a permanent line of dirt under his nails, which would have made him ashamed to even _touch_ the keys of the piano, if he’d had anything like the energy. But whatever rest he might have gotten was ruined by having to share a room with ghastly _Helen_ , who snored all night long, and who brayed at him with a laugh like a donkey when he tried to display a little _modesty_ and change in the corner, with his back to her. “What?” she’d said, “do you think you’re hiding something _special_?”

If only he could have shown her! But of course, none of it was there to show. He changed as quickly as he could, every morning and every night, less concerned with Helen than that he himself should catch a glimpse.

It was such a struggle just to get through the day that for almost a week, all the little indignities he was suffering numbed him to the bigger one. He would very nearly forget himself, especially at mealtimes: sitting in the servants’ hall, listening to the familiar rhythm of gossip and chatter, looking up and catching Thomas’ eye across the table. But then Thomas, instead of smiling back at him, would blink and shift his gaze, and Jimmy would remember. Stumbling over his skirts, or struggling free of them to relieve himself, or tearing them away from that blundering ass of a hallboy who was worse than a snapping turtle with his pinches—every day was filled with these humiliating reminders. So it wasn’t just that he was seeking out Thomas: Jimmy went out for a smoke in self-defense.

* * *

Thomas didn’t know what to do when the new housemaid, Jenny, came out into the yard. He moved on instinct: drawing his shoulders straight, stubbing out his cigarette.

“No, don’t do that,” she said, in that oddly resonant voice of hers. “I mean…might I have one, Mr. Barrow?”

“I’m not sure that would be entirely appropriate,” he said. He’d seen her watching him: when she wasn’t staring down at the floor with her little round shoulders hunched, she was always looking at him—eyes tracking him around the hall. Once, he would have found a way to discourage her—cruelly, if necessary…or if it amused him. But now…ought he discourage her? The man he was trying to be wouldn’t. Perhaps he could practice.

She laughed off his little nod to propriety anyway. She seemed like a different person, out here in the evening haze: relaxed and even bold. She held out her hand for the cigarette. “I think I’m perfectly safe with _you_ , Mr. Barrow.”

He stiffened, halfway through withdrawing his pack of Woodbines for her. Had she been _talking_ to somebody? He looked down at her pert, smiling face and wanted to scream. How dare she presume to know anything about him?

“Do you think so?” he said. He forced his hands to steady, to slow. A proper gentleman, he lit her cigarette. Standing out here, smoking with a woman, reminded him suddenly and powerfully of O’Brien, but he’d _never_ be able to go through with this if _she_ strayed in his brain, so he banished her. And of course his mind’s eye immediately conjured up Jimmy in her place—always his oasis, painful and bittersweet. Equally inappropriate, for what he had in mind, but not an image he could entirely shake, even as he pushed closer to Jenny’s upturned face. “But do you want to be safe?”

For a moment, she looked ready to laugh. Then she squinted at him, frowned, wrinkled her brow. Her face was entirely too expressive. With a pang he was reminded of Jimmy again. He sank back against the wall, his hands falling away without ever having seductively seized Jenny’s shoulders.

“I just want to _talk_ ,” she said finally. “I figured there had to be _someone_ sensible in this house. I thought it might be you.”

He was feeling dizzy again; hopefully she wouldn’t see. “Well,” he said carefully, “you’re a woman of refined judgment and taste.”

“ _Not_ how I would have chosen to describe myself,” Jenny said, dryly. Thomas caught the tail end of a comical look on her eloquent face and found himself letting out a dry chuckle that was almost entirely not a wheeze. He felt steadier, though: he could still do this. He just had to take it slow, not try to grow wings and fly before he’d learned how to walk.

He lit himself another cigarette. “All right,” he said. “So how would you choose to describe yourself, Jenny Essex?”

* * *

It did not surprise him, really, that the time he spent smoking and chatting with Thomas was the best he’d experienced since he’d woken up cursed—since he left Downton, even, maybe. After their weird, rough start—which Jimmy probably ought to spend some time worrying about later—they’d returned with surprising ease to something approximating their old rhythm. Thomas was wary of him—more than usually guarded—but in other ways he was nearly the old, warm version of himself that Jimmy knew was only his to see. _That_ was a little galling, in a way—what was Thomas doing, talking and _laughing_ with some housemaid? Who did this “Jenny Essex” think she was, waltzing in here and befriending Thomas Barrow with barely a trial? Jimmy had had to _suffer_ for Thomas’ friendship; they both had—to earn each other. What had Jenny Essex done, to merit Thomas Barrow’s cigarettes and smiles?

“You may be going mad,” Jimmy told his reflection. He could stand to look at it now, a bit. It wasn’t… _entirely_ terrible. He was at least an appropriately pretty girl: his mouth might be better suited, in point of fact, to this face, and his hair still looked reassuringly excellent. He was smaller than ever, but that mattered less on a girl. And the…well, his _breasts_ …they weren’t very large, but he thought they were a nice shape. His nipples were a lot bigger than he would have ever imagined a woman’s would be, but oh, when he touched them…

It was a very good thing that Helen was such a sound, noisy sleeper.

So he’d found a few diversions, ways to make the days bearable, but nothing that brought him any closer to figuring out why this had happened to him, or what he could do to set things right. Nor had he uncovered how to set _Thomas_ right, or even what was wrong with him in the first place. Although perhaps he had just been ill: already, in the few weeks Jimmy had been back, Thomas was looking more himself. Baxter had ceased to hover quite so ostentatiously and was prone to giving Thomas fond, rather smug, looks.

“What’s her problem?” Jimmy finally couldn’t stop himself from asking. He raised a sardonic brow. “Is she in love with you?”

“I should wash your mouth out with soap,” Thomas said with a shudder. Their hips brushed and Jimmy felt Thomas stiffen for just a moment; then his face smoothed over again. “She doesn’t know how to mind her own business.” Then he turned his head to blow out a puff of smoke, so Jimmy almost didn’t catch it when he added, “But she means well.”

_What happened to you?_ Jimmy felt the words on his lips, but they didn’t go any further. Not because they _couldn’t_ — _Jimmy Kent, Jimmy Kent!_ —but because he was almost afraid of the answer.

“Love’s a sham anyway,” he said, reflexively, defensively.

Thomas didn’t smile—Jimmy should have known better. “So you’re a cynic,” he said after a moment. “Not sure I’ve ever met a cynical housemaid—you’re a rare bird, Jenny Essex.”

He looked over at Jimmy as he said this, arching one perfect black brow. His eyes looked playful but the slant of his mouth was grave. Jimmy wanted to take it back, what he’d said. He wanted Thomas to call him a _rare bird_ again.

To call _him, Jimmy_ —

“Jenny Essex,” he said—and now he sounded like a bird, too: a dumb parrot. But he could cover: “Why do you always call me that, my full name?”

“Trips off the tongue,” Thomas said with a hint of a smirk.

But Jimmy found himself shaking his head. “You don’t have to. You can call me—“ _Jimmy_. “—Jenny.”

Thomas flicked ash onto the ground. “Don’t need permission for that,” he said, silk with just a hint of slime, “I’m your superior.”

But Jimmy’d had years to become accustomed to this. “Oh, I know you think you’re _very_ superior, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas’ head was bent. His eyelashes looked very dark against his white, white cheeks. His chest stuttered for a moment, and then he was letting out a long exhale of breath, haloing his bowed head in smoke.

“Thomas,” he said, finally. Glancing up. “You can call me Thomas.”

Before Jimmy could speak, Thomas’ hand found and pressed against his. It was a brief touch—so far removed from the lingering contact Jimmy had had inflicted on him back when he was himself and Thomas was in the first flush of, of…lust. His horrible unnatural lust, which Jimmy tried so hard not to think of.

This was most certainly nothing like that. But perhaps he’d been smoking too often lately—or too much for his weak feminine lungs—because Jimmy found himself short of breath as Thomas’ cold fingers slipped away, and Thomas himself streaked past him and through the door.

* * *

“You look happy.”

Thomas dropped a dark look over his shoulder. “Well, I _was_.” He cursed himself for being stupid enough to let Baxter corner him, except he couldn’t even manage that much internal heat. _Happy_. He really was.

“You finally stopped.” The relieved sigh, coupled with the way she clasped her hands in front of her body—really, it was a bit much. “Thomas, I’m so glad you’ve realized you don’t need to do that—“

“’Course I don’t need to,” he said, turning fully around. “Not anymore. Not when it’s _worked_.”

“What—?“

He left her to gape. In the corridor, he terrified one of the hallboys by grinning at him. He couldn’t help himself. He felt wonderful.

He was in love.

* * *

“Jenny? It’s Jenny, isn’t it?”

_No_ , Jimmy wanted to snap. But even if he could have got away with it, he probably physically couldn’t. “Yes,” he said, turning. He shifted his load of linens against his hip. They’d horrified him at first—he was all weird and curvy—but they did come in useful at times.

“I’m Baxter,” Baxter said—she probably meant it as a polite reminder. Jimmy—or “Jenny,” rather—had swiftly developed a reputation of being unfriendly and standoffish, but Jimmy didn’t care. Their friendships didn’t interest him. 

So he was not overly thrilled when Baxter followed up this introduction with, “May I speak with you?”

He shifted the linens again, this time pointedly. “I only have a minute.”

She smiled, awkwardly, nervously—although, Jimmy thought, that was also just sort of her face. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I just want to ask you…about Mr. Barrow.”

Jimmy felt his shoulders rise. “What about Mr. Barrow?”

“He…He’s…” Baxter did not appear to have thought this through. “He’s been through a great deal, lately.”

“Well,” said Jimmy, firmly, “it’s good he has a friend, then, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Barrow certainly needs all the friends he can get,” said Baxter, with a little nod of conceit. “But…you understand, don’t you, that Mr. Barrow can only ever be…your friend?”

“As opposed to what?” Jimmy gave a grandiose wave of his hand and nearly dropped his linens. “My lord and master?”

“Er,” said Baxter. After a moment she made an attempt to collect herself. “For both your sakes, I only want to make sure you understand.”

Jimmy scooped the linens back up against his chin. “I think I understand Thomas better than _you_.”

Baxter’s eyes widened in what looked to Jimmy like a parody of shock but was likely entirely sincere. “’Thomas’?”

“ _Mister_ Barrow and I understand each other perfectly,” Jimmy said, flushing—because of course, that was a lie. Thomas didn’t know the single most important thing about his friend Jenny Essex. It made him want to growl in frustration.

Baxter may have picked up on this, because she edged toward the stairwell. “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt,” she said. “You—but most especially him. Please. Jenny.” She clasped her hands together. “He might not survive it.”

Jimmy felt cold. He had to find out what had happened to Thomas while he was away. But now: “I would _never_ hurt him,” he said. He felt better, having said it, even leaving off the last, key part: _not again_.

Baxter nodded; she looked somewhat mollified. “I believe you. I can see that you…”

She was silent too long. “What?” Jimmy snapped.

“…Care about him,” she finished. 

Before he might have worried that he was being too obvious—though of course there was nothing _wrong_ for him to be obvious about. Now, at least, he didn’t have to worry about that. “Good,” he said.

As soon as he could, he went to find Thomas. “Baxter seems to think there’s something untoward happening between us,” he said with a grin.

Thomas, to his surprise, did not grin back. “I…” he said, and then trailed off, grimacing to himself as he glanced around the muddy yard. He stubbed out his cigarette and turned back to Jimmy. “Care to sneak away for a short walk?”

Jimmy was delighted, and a bit worried—but mostly delighted. With Thomas leading the way, they cut across the lawn on a route Jimmy knew Thomas had developed via many years’ trial and error to best avoid sight lines from the house. Thomas didn’t chose to share the history of this ingenious piece of work with “Jenny,” though, which made Jimmy feel both prideful and hurt.

His pucker of confusion must have been powerful enough to cut through Thomas’ focused distraction, because Thomas broke his purposeful stride to look Jimmy over. “What’s the matter? Are you cold?”

He started shrugging off his jacket before Jimmy could even finish formulating his denial. “Stop it,” he said instead. It came out harsher than he intended: Thomas looked something of a pathetic figure, the rejected jacket drooping in his hand. _Of course_ , Jimmy thought—what would Thomas know about courting a woman? Not that he was courting Jimmy— _Jenny_ , that is. Like this, at least, Jimmy knew he was entirely safe from Thomas’ sinful affections. They could be pure friends now, finally.

“Thank you,” he amended, “but I find all that chivalry nonsense awfully tiresome, don’t you?”

This was true. Jimmy had never understood why he was expected to, say, lay his jacket down in the mud so a girl might keep her _boots_ from getting dirty. It made no sense at all. And now he could say with certainty that it was equally awkward from the other side.

“Ah,” said Thomas, reluctantly re-donning his jacket. “I’ve never given it much consideration.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t need to,” Jimmy mused.

Thomas drew up short. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, just…” God, how awkward to have it be a secret between them again! It was simply the way Thomas _was_ , and Jimmy didn’t mind it—not once the way things stood between the two of them had been straightened out. “I mean, a man of your sort…”

Jimmy saw immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. All the warmth drained from Thomas’ face. Jimmy tensed: he realized that he was expecting Thomas to grab him, or to push close and loom at him in an intimidating manner. He knew Thomas was capable of it—he’d seen him do it to other people.

But instead Thomas took a step back. His shoulders sagged—he looked like a puppet with cut strings. “Who’ve you been talking to you?” The words were forced out through gritted teeth.

“No one!” said Jimmy. “Honestly…”

“Well, whoever it was, they’re wrong!” Thomas’ gloved hand cut through the air in an emphatic gesture. “I’ve changed,” he said—and now he sounded soft and earnest. It was strange; it made Jimmy’s chest feel tight. “I’m not the man I was.”

“Why—“ _I liked the man you were_ , Jimmy wanted to say, but apparently that was over the line. “You’re a fine man, as you are,” he said instead. He could feel himself flushing. “Why would you need to change?”

Thomas smiled. It was a shaky, hesitant smile. Jimmy had seen it once before: _I’d like it if we could be friends_.

“I haven’t needed to change any more, not since I met you, Jenny,” Thomas said, and reached out with his pale, ungloved hand. Feeling like he was in a trance, Jimmy let his own palm be taken up in Thomas’ larger one. Thomas was so much bigger than he was, now; all at once it was overwhelming.

“What are you saying?”

He could see Thomas sucking in a deep breath. “I’m saying, Jenny Essex, that I love you. I love you and I want to marry you. Will you have me?”

Jimmy blinked and the next thing he knew, Thomas was down on one knee in the wet grass. _But your livery_ , Jimmy wanted to say. _But_ …

“It’s impossible,” he said. 

Thomas’ face fell. “You don’t feel the same.” His fingers started to slip away.

Jimmy clenched them tight and shook his head: he wasn’t making himself clear. “I…” _I’m a man! A_ man _, Thomas, and you ought to prefer me that way!_ “I’m not like other girls,” was the best he could manage.

Thomas managed a soft laugh. “I know, it’s wonderful. Jenny, I can tell you with complete and utter honesty: I’ve never loved a girl the way I love you.”

“Right!” said Jimmy, desperately. “Because you’re…not the usual sort. And that’s all right, Thomas—I don’t judge you for it. But it means this can never work!”

“It can,” Thomas insisted. “Let me prove it to you. Let me find a way to prove it to you…”

“You want proof?” Jimmy said wildly. “Fine! Here’s proof!”

He gave Thomas’ hand a tug and hauled—or at least encouraged—him to his feet. Once he had some momentum, it was an easy thing to pull him close. Jimmy pushed up on his tiptoes and grabbed the back of Thomas’ neck. Then he closed his eyes and brought their mouths together in what he was sure would be a ridiculous parody of a kiss.

He thought it was working, at first: their noses bumped; he felt Thomas’ rough stubble drag across his own unnaturally soft cheek. But then Thomas’ lips were on his, firm and insistent. He could smell Thomas: his cigarettes and his pomade and his sweat—clean and male like the air outdoors. He could taste him: ash again, but beneath it something that reminded Jimmy of Christmas oranges. He felt his own lips part.

Thomas’ tongue swept against his. They were so close—this was shockingly intimate. Which he knew, of course, of course: it was a kiss. But he hadn’t known. He could feel the wild beating of Thomas’ heart against his chest. He felt Thomas’ hands come up and caress the back of his neck, each palm a different texture, cloth and skin. Thomas’ long, clever fingers brought strands of Jimmy’s hair free from its knot. Between Jimmy’s legs, a warm, liquid feeling began to pool.

“Oh,” he breathed.

Thomas drew back, his face full of relief and wonder. So he _had_ doubted. Jimmy felt vaguely reassured.

It was clear, though, that his feelings were not to be trusted.

Thomas was smiling at him. He was smiling and Jimmy helplessly shifted his thighs. He hadn’t known a woman could feel like this. He hadn’t known that _he_ could.

“See?” said Thomas breathlessly. His thumb came forward and swept across Jimmy’s cheek, coming to rest at the corner of his lips. Jimmy resisted the urge to turn his head and suck it into his mouth.

“I want you,” Thomas insisted, like he himself still couldn’t quite believe it. “I want you to be my wife.”

It was the word _wife_ that did it. Jimmy could feel himself starting to shake. He pushed Thomas away. Thomas just stood there, dumbly; Jimmy wanted to punch him. “I’m…I’m not—“ _Oh god, Thomas, help me! You were supposed to_ help _me!_

But Jimmy had never figured out how to ask for Thomas’ help. He had never even tried.

“There are things you don’t know about me,” he managed to say. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “I…may not be who you think I am.”

“Whoever you are, I love you.” Thomas seemed to swell every time he professed his love. Jimmy had always known, abstractly, that he was a romantic, but it was quite a thing to see it—to see this side of him that, for the most part, he had kept carefully hidden even from Jimmy. “I’m not afraid of anything in your past. No matter what happens, I’ll always protect you.

“Even if your answer’s no,” he added, more steadily. “If you truly don’t feel the same—if there’s no chance—“

“No!” said Jimmy, without thinking. “I just…I wasn’t expecting…let me think about it?” he finished lamely. 

Twin spots of color returned to Thomas’ pale cheeks. “Of course,” he said. “Take all the time you need.” He reclaimed Jimmy’s hand and kissed its back while Jimmy stood there stupidly.

“We should get back.”

Thomas nodded. For a second, he looked like normal, serious, work-Thomas. Then his grey eyes caught a glint. “I’d run away with you if you want. Or we could stay here, settle down in a little cottage…”

“What, with the Bateses as our neighbors?” Jimmy couldn’t help his snort.

But Thomas looked delighted. “That would show them,” he said. “I want to make you sickeningly happy.”

For a brief moment, Jimmy entertained the possibility that Thomas wanted to marry him as part of an incredibly elaborate scheme of revenge. _That_ would be more in keeping with the Thomas of old—it might even be something Jimmy could get behind. But no: he looked into Thomas’ eyes and Jimmy could tell that he was, of all things, sincere.

Thomas loved him. Even like this, in this body, Thomas loved him. He had never stopped.

Jimmy felt his heart flutter in his chest. But seeing as he was not actually a woman, he did _not_ swoon. He let Thomas guide him back up to the house as a courtesy to Thomas.

And when he gave him one last fleeting kiss, there in the shadowed yard—that was obviously a courtesy, too.

* * *

She hadn’t said yes. It should bother him—it had not been an outright refusal, but it wasn’t acceptance, either. Yet he felt _wonderful_. Some part of him was convinced that she felt the same and the belief couldn’t be shook. She’d asked for time and he would give it to her—with pleasure.

The wait was even somewhat sweet. For the first time in months, he could let his fantasies unfold without guilt. The little blue book he had bought still did nothing for him, but what did that matter when he had Jenny? No man would ever be truer to his wife than Thomas would be to his Jenny. He remembered their kiss, which had far exceeded anything he could have imagined for himself. It had been as good as kissing a man—no. It had been good, period—healthy and true—and it had stirred him. The memory of it still did. He lay in the dark and remembered Jenny’s full mouth opening under his, the way her body felt tucked against his own. He could love her and protect her—just like a man should.

And he could satisfy her. He’d been fearful, but his fears were now allayed. She got him hot. Thomas could not say what it was about her, but that hardly mattered. It was probably better, even, that he loved the whole package: her smile and her wit and the way her hair fell in her eyes and her voice, that penetrating voice. He wanted to kiss his way down her slim, golden throat and he anticipated being perfectly content with what he would find.

They would settle down together and be happy and no one could take it away.


	2. Chapter 2

Jimmy couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss. Thinking about the proposal made him feel shaky and sad, so thinking about the kiss was the lesser of two evils, really. It kept playing and replaying in his mind: he had reached for Thomas—so certain that he was about to reveal for Thomas the full extent of his folly—and then their mouths met, and Thomas’ fingers had skimmed across his neck, and Jimmy had… Jimmy had felt an ache. It was still there. It followed him all day long: while he swept up ash and thought about kissing Thomas, while he hauled linens off the beds and thought about kissing Thomas, while they sat at supper and he stared across the table at Thomas and thought about kissing him. Leaning right across the table and doing it. The thing was, he _could_ almost: at best Carson would be hilariously scandalized and at worst “Jenny” would be dismissed—just like Jimmy had been. No one would ever even think about summoning the police or punishing Jimmy the way he had once attempted to do to Thomas.

The unfairness of it struck him: again, for the first time. And it brought Jimmy back to the fact that Thomas couldn’t possibly want this—want to marry _Jenny_. Thomas was a romantic—Jimmy knew it now, for certain—and he wanted to find love, wanted to settle down. Oh, god—Jimmy could hear him, the day of Jimmy’s disastrous encounter with Lady Anstruther: _not all of us have that option_. And now Jimmy was back to being torn between fury and grief, to think that his proud Thomas had, in Jimmy’s absence, come to convince himself that he could deny his true nature. Jimmy understood why Thomas would like Jenny: she was _Jimmy_ , after all. But Thomas, being as he was, couldn’t possibly _want_ her—any more than Jimmy could want _Thomas_. Right? Right!

Right.

Jimmy thought about it for two days. Then he slipped Thomas a note at breakfast. Then, after an agonizing hour and a half, Thomas appeared in the doorway of the recently vacated guest room Jimmy was cleaning, looking bemused.

“I still need proof,” Jimmy said in a rush. If he stopped to think, he would lose his nerve.

“Proof?”

“That you really want this. Want _me_.” With a last, uncareful glance out into the hallway, he pulled himself up onto the bed and lifted his skirts.

Thomas, without being instructed, shut and locked the door.

He stayed right beside it, however. “Jenny…I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“We won’t get caught,” said Jimmy, with a fearlessness he didn’t feel. He tugged down his small clothes and stared at Thomas’ long fingers, clenched around the doorknob. 

“No, I mean…I don’t want to get you _in trouble_.”

The penny dropped with the force of a bomb. Jimmy blanched: what a horrific thought! “I didn’t mean that anyway,” he said quickly. “I meant…I want you to use your mouth.”

It seemed like a good test. Lady Anstruther had had _him_ do it—for a while, anyway. He couldn’t imagine Thomas would have the stomach.

He looked daunted at the prospect, certainly. But his fingers uncurled from around the knob and he came a few paces closer. “You’re a worldly one, aren’t you?” he said with a flick of his grey eyes. 

“Just an idea I had,” Jimmy said, as casually as he could with the skirts of a maid’s uniform bunched up around his waist.

“Very clever.” Thomas was standing in front of him now. He was looking at _it_. Jimmy wondered if he had ever seen one before. His expression was a little too clinical—Jimmy began to feel like he was visiting the doctor.

“Well?” he said.

Thomas’ eyes flickered up to his face. “Can I kiss you first?”

Jimmy hadn’t been expecting that. Still, it seemed cruel to deny Thomas such a simple request, after what Jimmy was asking him to _do_. “All right.”

Thomas stepped between his legs and bent over him. Jimmy flushed at even the _suggestion_ of Thomas’ weight spread across his body. He sank back against the counterpane, the tension in his spine releasing as Thomas cupped the back of his neck. They kissed—Jimmy meant it to be brief. But there was no natural breaking off point, no moment where Jimmy became tired of it or bored. Even when they broke for air, he found it felt more natural to return for more.

Thomas’ gloved hand was trailing up the inside of Jimmy’s leg. Jimmy shivered and leaned into the touch. Then all at once, Thomas’ fingers were there: in the hollow between Jimmy’s thighs, in his most changed place. They brushed across the sensitive swell of him and dipped over the edge. “No!” Jimmy managed to gasp. Thomas froze. “Your _mouth_ ,” Jimmy insisted. “You promised!”

There were two bright points of color illuminating Thomas’ pale cheeks. “I’ve never…” he admitted, then shook his head. “I love you,” he said, much more vehemently. Then he shifted his grip back down to Jimmy’s ankle and bent his head.

Jimmy could see his shiny black crown, his perfectly slicked-back hair. He felt Thomas press his lips to the inside of Jimmy’s thigh, soft kisses. Then all at once, a little darting flick of tongue. It barely felt like anything, and yet Jimmy gasped and squirmed. Encouraged, Thomas licked along Jimmy’s crease, lapping inside. His hands moved up and gripped him tight, holding apart his thighs, one palm squeezing the plump swell of Jimmy’s ass. Jimmy found himself writhing on the bed; he would have slid off if Thomas weren’t holding him. Thomas was a determined explorer—he was so brave—he licked and sucked and swirled his tongue against the little nub that Jimmy had already discovered could make him threaten to penetrate even the cacophony of Helen’s snores with his own small, muffled cries. He made a choked off noise now, nearly clobbering Thomas’ head between his thighs. 

Thomas raised his face. His mouth looked obscenely swollen and pink, and he appeared entirely too pleased with himself. “Do you like that, my love?”

Jimmy let out a little growl of frustration and plunged his hand into Thomas’ thick hair. Jimmy couldn’t stand to be the only thing destroyed.

It was also a good way to force Thomas’ head back down. 

He went willingly, even eagerly. Jimmy couldn’t reconcile it: despite his own best (begrudging) efforts, Lady Anstruther had swiftly bored of his ministrations. But Jimmy felt like he was about to fly apart. “Thomas, Thomas…” That didn’t sound like his voice, not even his _new_ voice. He was undone. Something inside of him broke and he shuddered through it, speared on Thomas’ tongue, close to death. “Oh…”

His hand was sticky with pomade. He coaxed Thomas up to kiss him again, tasted himself on his lips, and felt another wash of heat. “I liked doing that to you,” Thomas whispered into his mouth. “What does that prove?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know…” Jimmy almost wept. He kissed Thomas again and tried to squirm a hand into his trousers.

Thomas caught his wrist. “You don’t have to…”

“Please,” Jimmy said. “Please, let me—“

He stared up at Thomas as he popped the buttons one by one. His fingers brushed Thomas’ cock—he wasn’t hard. Thomas bit his lip, his mussed hair falling into his eyes, but Jimmy reached up and took him by the chin, kissing him as he stroked, and then Thomas was gasping and stiffening in Jimmy’s hand.

Belatedly, Jimmy realized what he was doing: he had Thomas’ cock in his hand. He had his hand on another man’s cock and he was doing to his darnedest to make him come. Jimmy shivered, unable to suppress the tremor of horror that threatened to overwhelm him— _what was he doing?_ This went against everything, _everything_ he’d been taught about being a man…but he wasn’t a man right now, was he? He wasn’t Jimmy Kent; he was Jenny Essex. Looking down at his hand on Thomas’ prick, it was obvious that it wasn’t _his_ hand, Jimmy Kent’s hand, that was enthusiastically working on bringing Thomas off—it was too small and feminine. This was Jenny’s doing.

Kissing Thomas as he trembled and moaned and came across the fine cotton sheets, Jimmy felt like maybe Jenny was made expressly for this. So they could do this. So they could have this. So Jimmy could see _this_ look on Thomas’ fucked-out face.

He smiled with Jenny’s pretty pink mouth. “I’m _going_ to make you sickeningly happy,” she said.

* * *

“You wished to speak to me, Barrow?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Thomas straightened his already straight shoulders and drew his chin up to meet Lord Grantham’s eyes. He looked distracted, and a little anxious; he gestured for Thomas to continue.

Thomas’ heart had been beating wildly—coursing with adrenaline in anticipation of this meeting—but he felt a veil of calm descend. “I have…an unusual request, my Lord.”

From the look on his face, Thomas could tell that Grantham was thinking about the exceptions and “special treatment” Thomas had already been granted with a distinct lack of fondness.

“As you know, I’ve been employed at Downton for nearly fifteen years, and I am aware my conduct has not always been without fault.”

“I believe that may be an understatement, Barrow,” said Lord Grantham in a lightly wry, heavily superior tone.

Thomas acknowledged this with an incline of his head. “However,” he said, “I think I have proven myself capable of change and self-improvement. Recently I believe I have made especially great strides in that area.”

Lord Grantham did not bother to disguise his sigh. “If you could arrive at the point, Barrow.”

“My apologies, my Lord,” said Thomas, for his own part doing his best to disguise his smile. “My request is this: I would like your permission to marry Jane Essex.”

The comical widening of Lord Grantham’s eyes was truly a thing to behold. Thomas fixed it in his mind. “Jane…?”

“She’s one of the housemaids, my Lord,” Thomas said smoothly.

“Why yes, yes of course.” He steadied himself on a side table and blinked at Thomas. “And you wish to…marry…this young lady?”

Another nod of his head. “And it is my very great fortune that she also wishes to marry me.” He looked up with a wide-eyed expression of his own. “I will of course also seek the permission of Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, but I thought it more appropriate to speak with you first.”

“Yes, quite.” Lord Grantham seemed at a loss. “Barrow, I have to say, I wasn’t sure there was anything left you could do that would shock me…”

“I hope it is a pleasant shock, my Lord?”

“Naturally! Naturally,” said Lord Grantham. “Just...” He fumbled on the sideboard and poured himself a sloppy drink. “If I may ask, what brought about this sudden…change of heart?”

Thomas felt a twinge, a sharp pain between his shoulder blades, but he let out a slow breath and forced it away. He put on one of his more public smiles. 

“I think perhaps I simply had a difficult time moving past the follies of youth,” Thomas said. “But now I like to think I have finally grown up, and have put away childish things.”

Lord Grantham was eating this up as if Thomas had leaned forward at table and discreetly offered him the spoon. “Well said. I am pleased for you, Barrow: I am genuinely very pleased. Congratulations.” He paused with his glass halfway to his lips. “And, I suppose, congratulations—to you and Miss…”

“Essex.”

Grantham took a slug of scotch. “The future Mrs. Barrow. Ha!” But mere seconds later, his expression creased; he brought the glass back down. “But Barrow—how do you intend to manage it? We can’t have servants—even married ones—skipping back and forth between the men’s and women’s halls.”

Thomas had been waiting for this. “Fortunately, my Lord, there is a precedent.” He tilted his chin higher and tried not to slip too many teeth into his grin. “Mr. and Mrs. Bates do have such a lovely cottage.”

* * *

As Anna helped fit Jimmy for his wedding dress, he reflected that he may have let things go a bit too far.

His reflection had mostly ceased to horrify him, but it verged on terrifying again, staring into the long, oval mirror as Anna adjusted the pins on the old ivory dress of hers that she was altering for him and enhancing with savings of lace. “Am I poking you?” she kept asking, probably because of the expressions that continued to flicker across his face as it dawned on him again and again: what he had done, what he had done, what he had done.

He was going to marry Thomas.

He and Thomas were going to be married.

He was going to be Thomas Barrow’s wife.

This was not a situation that should be occurring. Jimmy could, he knew, make it cease occurring at any time: one word from him and the whole thing would be over. No one would even blame him, or judge him very much: they all thought him mad for agreeing to marry Thomas in the first place.

Jimmy had seen the looks of everyone downstairs. Toward Thomas there was a mixture of begrudging pride (Mr. Carson), baffled concern (Baxter and Mrs. Hughes), and poorly disguised suspicion (Mr. Bates). As for Jimmy…well, everyone thought he was either hopelessly naïve or an idiot. Even _Daisy_ had tried to help him see reason: “I don’t blame you for having feelings for him…I did too, once…and I can see that he’s a good friend to you, which is lovely, but that’s not always the same thing as a good husband…” Jimmy refrained from pointing out that Daisy had, according to Thomas, been married for all of five minutes and could therefore hardly be considered an expert, thank you, and what did she mean _she had once had feelings for Thomas?_

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” Jimmy said instead, tempering the words with a smile.

So he really _couldn’t_ call it off, was the thing. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. 

Still, it felt like a grand and elaborate joke that had gone on far too long. He, Jimmy Kent, was a _man_ —not a woman!—and his husband-to-be, Thomas Barrow, fairly notoriously did not even _like_ women. These seemed to Jimmy, in his more lucid moments, to be a pair of fairly serious issues. Yet when Reverend Travis read out the banns for them, the church had _not_ erupted into extravagant flame. And no one had raised any objection, not for any of the last three weeks. No matter Jimmy’s feelings on the subject: the parish approved.

“So there’s still a bit to do, but never fear, I can get it done in plenty of time,” said Anna, reassuringly. She seemed to have got stuck, tonally, on _reassuring_. It was extremely annoying. “I can do your hair, too, on the big day. You have such lovely hair.”

Jimmy nodded a bit at this, because he did.

Anna returned his smile brightly. “You’re going to be such a beautiful bride!”

Jimmy burst into tears.

Except he didn’t burst so much as dissolve, in slow but inescapable stages: he could see his face crumple in the mirror. And then he was crying—choked off, wrenching sobs. It was awful, and he couldn’t even blame his courses, because he’d just finished them. (The less said about that the better.)

Anna stared at him, then sprung belatedly into action, fetching a handkerchief before he could rub snot onto his dress. She laid a light hand on his shoulder. “There, that’s all right. Sometimes it’s best just to let it out.”

Her hand lifted away again as she went to find him a glass of water. When he’d calmed enough to do so without choking, he gulped down a couple of sips. This was so embarrassing.

Anna brought him a chair along with one for herself. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“It’s all right,” she said, fixing him with a soft smile. “I’m a married woman myself, you probably can’t shock me.”

_Wanna bet?_ Jimmy thought. But then again, since she’d never be able to hear the truth from his lips, it was probably a bet he would lose.

“Are you…are you having second thoughts?” Anna asked carefully. “That’s all right, you know—to worry about it. Marriage is not something to be undertaken lightly.”

“I…” He let out a heavy breath. “I just don’t see how it can work out. Not when we haven’t been entirely honest with each other. When I haven’t told him…” _That it’s me he’ll be marrying, I’m_ me _, I’m Jimmy!_ “…The truth.”

Anna seemed to consider her words, worrying her lip between her teeth. “But you love each other.”

“We…” Jimmy floundered. _No_ , he thought, _no, see, that’s the thing: Thomas can’t love Jenny. He’s supposed to love_ me.

“He’s my best friend,” said Jimmy, weakly. “I…care about him more than I…more than I’ve ever cared about anybody else.”

He half-expected Anna to curl her lip at him, but she just nodded again. “Then you can tell him, whatever it is. Your truth.”

Jimmy shook his head. “I can’t, though.”

“You _can_ ,” insisted Anna. God, what did she know? Come to think of it, why was he even listening to relationship advice from her? She’d gone and married _Bates_. 

Still, she persisted: “If anything, learn from my poor example.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “Honesty is so important. You’ll save yourself so much heartache if you just tell the truth. Mr. Barrow—I’ve known him a long time, and I hope you don’t mind my saying…he does not love easily. But when he does, he does fiercely.”

She looked to him for a reaction, but Jimmy felt incapable of giving one. He felt incapable of anything—incapacitated. 

Anna tried again, a faint flush to her cheeks. “He’s tenacious, our Mr. Barrow. _Your_ Mr. Barrow, I should say.”

“Yes,” said Jimmy, after a moment. Her words had set off a possessive swell, like a viney flower unfurling in his chest. He had wanted Thomas to find happiness, but he no longer trusted him to seek it on his own. Thomas was _his_ responsibility—weren’t there legends that said that’s how it worked, when someone saved your life?—and maybe it was for that reason that Jimmy was stuck like this. It made him feel better to think there might be a reason. So he could look after Thomas, always.

“Yes,” he said again, rising to his feet. “You’re right, thank you. I feel better now.”

“Good.” She moved to unpin him, then came to an awkward halt at his shoulder. “And Jenny, if…if any of your anxiety is about the—“ Her voice dropped to a whisper, even though they were alone in the cottage. “—The _wedding night_. Well. You can ask me.”

Jimmy felt like his eyes were about to pop out of his head. “Oh.”

“It’s perfectly natural to be nervous. _I_ was—“ Anna continued in her unnecessary whisper, and dear god, if Jimmy had to hear any details about Anna and Bates on their wedding night, it was unlikely that he would ever be able to have sex with anybody ever again. 

“No,” he said hastily, “no, I’m fine. Thank you.”

He could see her smile reflected back at him in the mirror. It was so _genuine_. Jimmy sort of admired her, even though he didn’t understand her at all. The motivations of H.G. Wells’ Martians made more sense to him.

“It’s good for women to be able to talk to each other about these things,” she said, helping him ease out of the delicate dress. “It looks like we’re going to be neighbors and I hope we can be friends.”

The idea was laughable: this, right now, was probably the longest conversation he’d had with a woman _ever_. Lady Anstruther had not been much interested in conversation, and Ivy…he hadn’t always _meant_ to, but whenever she opened her mouth, he’d had a tendency to tune her out. If…Alfred or Molesley or somebody did that to him, he’d want to sock them in the jaw, Jimmy thought with a sudden, untargeted burst of rage. But of course ladies could not go around socking people in the jaw.

He was going to marry Thomas and be stuck like this, not even Jenny Essex anymore. Mrs. Thomas Barrow.

“Yes,” he said, a little too sharply, desperately. “Yes, I’d like that.”

* * *

Thomas was getting married tomorrow. It felt unreal. All of the past few months did, in a way: as if instead of curing him, the drugs had put him into a permanent state of psychotropic haze. He’d been so ill and so low and then _she_ had arrived and saved him. Or else he’d saved himself _for_ her. Just in the nick of time.

Tomorrow he started anew. He’d have a new life: a wife, a home, safe and secure. It wasn’t giving in, because he’d fought for it, fought hard—tooth and nail. He’d _earned_ his happiness, for himself, just as he always had. Nothing had ever been handed to him that he hadn’t scrambled in the dirt to take.

But from now on, he would be clean.

He couldn’t wait. And yet, as the clock ticked down, he decided to allow himself one last indulgence. He wanted to send one final letter to Jimmy. He’d been working on it for weeks, and he knew that there was every likelihood Jimmy would never even get it—despite his promise, Jimmy had never written to _Thomas_. But he wanted to send the letter. It would be the final chapter before he closed the pages of that book.

He was addressing the envelope and trying not to give into the urge to read the letter over again when he heard a creak on the stair. He turned around and to his surprise saw that it was Jenny. He slipped the letter into his pocket: a reflex more than anything. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth but something in her expression quelled it. 

“Isn’t this bad luck?” he teased.

The line of her jaw stayed serious. “That’s only the dress.”

He slid back his chair and stood, half reaching out to her. “Are you all right? I thought you’d gone to bed.” Everyone else had. Mrs. Hughes had clucked that tomorrow was “a big, exciting day,” but Thomas was too jittery for sleep. He needed to do this one last thing.

Jenny seemingly felt the same. “I couldn’t sleep. And I wanted to talk to you.”

“I’m always happy to talk to you,” Thomas said. “I’m looking forward to a lifetime of talking with you.”

“We are good at talking,” Jenny agreed. She skirted past him, turning awkwardly on one ankle before lowering herself down on the bench beside the piano, her back to the instrument. She dropped her hands into her lap. “Just not always about the right things.”

Thomas’ heart clenched, like an invisible hand was squeezing it. “Is there something you want to tell me?” _She’s having second thoughts. She’s realized what a horrible mistake she’s made, agreeing to marry_ you.

Jenny looked up at him. Her lip quavered. “I want to tell you _everything_. I want you to know everything there is to know about me.”

“Tonight?” he asked. He was not joking: if she wanted to speak, he would listen.

But she shook her head. “I wish we could be honest with each other. I wish we could go into this _honestly_.”

Thomas swallowed. “Jenny, I think you know…I think you must suspect…I haven’t always been—“

“Oh, not about _that_.” Thomas, in his shock, caught Jenny only on the tail end of an extravagant roll of her eyes. “I know you, I’ve come to know you, and none of it bothers me. You’re really not half as terrible as you think, Thomas.”

He felt weak in the knees. Her eyes were sparkling and it was almost frightening, the knowledge she seemed to hold there. She claimed to know him, to truly know him, and still she looked at him like that.

“It’s me I meant,” she said, shifting, awkward again. “I’m not…I’m— _argh_.” She turned and smashed her fist down on the piano keys.

The noise was jarring, but Thomas found his involuntary “ _Careful!_ ” cut through it. Jenny turned and looked at him, blinking. The last thing he wanted to do was scold her, but _honestly_. “You have to be delicate with that. It’s very important to…people.”

An odd, unexpected smile overtook her features. “I understand.” She turned fully around and laid her hands much more gently on the keys. Then softly, gracefully, she began to play. A light, jaunty tune, though she kept it unusually _pianissimo_ in deference to the late hour. She had a natural, easy touch; she turned and regarded him over her shoulder, smiling.

“You play,” Thomas said stupidly. “I didn’t know you played.”

“I’ve hardly had _time_ ,” she said. “And my hands are always so _dirty_ …”

Without meaning to, he laughed.

Her face scrunched into a frown. “What?”

“It’s nothing. It’s just, for a moment, you reminded me of someone…” It was not the first time. Thomas tried not to think on it. But if they were being honest…

Her face lit up. “Who? Who do I remind you of?”

“Oh,” said Thomas, and found that some degrees of honesty were beyond him. “Just an old friend.”

Her look was entirely too penetrating. “And will this old friend be at the wedding?”

“No.” Was that relief in his voice? Thomas both wished Jimmy could be there—so he could see how vastly and beyond expectations Thomas had succeeded—and was relieved that he would not. “He moved far away.”

Jenny was biting her lip. “Do you miss him?”

Oh god—did she suspect? She said his past didn’t bother her, but it was one thing to suspect and another to _know_ , to be confronted with evidence. _The last person I loved before you was a man named Jimmy Kent_. 

Suddenly, he knew precisely what he could do—what he should do. He could be honest and yet not go too far with his honesty, and revolt or corrupt a young girl. He pulled the letter out of his pocket and held it out to her. 

“I was going to mail that in the morning,” he said. “Go ahead, you can read it.” _Yes, read it_ , he thought. _Read it and see for yourself that it’s done._

Her left hand lifted off the piano keys and took the letter. Thomas felt an instant sense of release—like he had handed _himself_ off. _Yes, it’s done. Now I’m yours._

He watched Jenny’s face as she read the letter, her eyes flickering over the page. He saw the moment her jaw tightened, and then she parted her lips and Thomas realized, with no small horror, that for some strange reason she was about to read the letter aloud.

“’Dear Jenny, I’m writing with news I know will both please and surprise you. I have met a truly singular woman and fallen in love. Since, as you would say, there is no accounting for taste, she has agreed to become my wife. By the time you read this we shall be wed. Jenny, I don’t know if our paths will ever cross again, but wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, I hope you are as happy as I, and that you’ve found that perfect, magical girl who makes you want to be a good boy and settle down. But if your wanderings do take you through Yorkshire again, know that you are always welcome in the home of— Your married friend, Thomas Barrow.’”

Thomas couldn’t read the look on her face as she dropped both hand and letter down to her lap. Her nostrils were flaring.

Thomas swallowed heavily. “Jimmy,” he said, for lack of anything else. “His name is Jimmy. You kept…saying your own name.” He tried not to sound judgmental, although it was frankly a very odd thing to do.

“Did I,” said Jenny with a profound sigh. “How silly of me. What’s his name again?”

“Jimmy Kent.” It felt strange to say it aloud again, after all this time: the name he’d once reverently whispered inside his own head.

“Oh,” said Jenny, nodding. “Right. Jenny Essex.”

Thomas found himself shaken out of his introspection. “Jimmy Kent,” he corrected, without thinking. He looked Jenny over more carefully. “Are you—are you trying to make some kind of point?”

Jenny’s eyes had gone wide again. There was an almost fevered look to them. “No, I was just reading the letter you gave me—the letter you wrote to Jenny Essex.”

“ _Jimmy Kent_ ,” Thomas couldn’t help but snap. “ _You’re_ Jenny Essex.”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Jenny, grabbing his hand and squeezing. Her eyes were blazing. When she spoke, it was as if she were experiencing very great strain. “I’m _Jenny Essex_. At. Your. Service.”

Thomas dropped her hand as if he’d been burned. He was sweating. “What are you saying? I don’t understand. What are you saying to me?”

Jenny’s chest was heaving. “Clocks are living things,” she said wildly. “Never go past the point where a clock is comfortable.”

“Stop it!”

“I’d like it if we could be friends.”

“Is this some sort of joke?” Thomas could feel the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He clenched his hands into fists. “Has this all been—“

“But we have been friends.” Jenny got swaying to her feet. “And I’d be sad to see the back of you, do you hear me? Please listen. Listen to what I’m saying.”

She stepped right up to him, tiny but fearless, and grabbed him by the back of the neck. She tilted his head down, forced him to look into her eyes. And though his eyes were tear-stung, he saw her. He saw her.

“I’m Jenny. I’m your Jenny!”

“Oh, god.” He stumbled away from her. His hand went to his mouth; for a moment he was convinced he was going to be sick. 

When he dared a glance back, she was still there, still _her_. But he could see it, sort of, overlaid: not in any literal way, but in every memory of the way she moved, the way she talked, her smile and her voice. The way she made him feel.

“ _Why_?” he said. And then realizing it was it was perhaps an even more significant point: “How?”

Jenny—Jimmy?—shrugged helplessly. “I can’t explain it. I _literally_ can’t. I’m Jenny Essex. I have to be Jenny Essex.”

The idea hit him like a rocket. Thomas thought again that he might be sick. “Did you have to…everything between us…?”

“No!” Thomas felt air sweep back into his lungs at the vehemence of the response. “I’ve been as honest as I could be. I meant it.” She—he? The incongruity was killing him. Jenny or Jimmy gripped the back of a chair. That little chin lifted. “I meant it, Thomas. I want to make you sickeningly happy. I do.”

“Oh, god,” Thomas said again. He sat because otherwise he ran a very great risk of falling down. “We’re getting married tomorrow.”

“Yes.” Jimmy—she _was_ Jimmy; of course, he could see it now: she was _obviously_ Jimmy—Jimmy smiled at him. “Tomorrow, in a state of utter honesty, we can be wed.”

Thomas let out a shaky laugh. “I think there might be an objection or two—starting with Reverend Travis—if you found a way to be honest about who and what you are.”

“Who cares about him? Who cares about _any_ of them? I meant honesty between _us_ —that’s all that matters to me.” Jimmy’s face had crumpled with concern. “What _happened_ to you, Thomas? When did you start worrying so much what other people think? You were always braver than them, better—“

“I was always _alone_ ,” Thomas said. “When you were here, I could pretend…but after you left, I had no one. I used to tell myself it was because most people were fools, useless…but it isn’t them. It’s me. There’s something wrong with me.”

Jimmy nodded in agreement. “You’re a bit of a bastard. It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

Thomas cut him an annoyed look. “You know very well that’s not what I meant.”

“Well, I refuse to listen to any other theory when I know the truth. And you should _never_ compromise yourself for them.” Jimmy paused and licked his lips, then said, shyly, “Only for me. If you still have a mind to.”

It took Thomas an agonizingly long moment to understand what he meant. “You _still_ want to get married?” Thank god for the solidness of the table; it assured him that this was indeed real. But in truth, he still couldn’t believe it when Jimmy nodded. He let out a phony sounding scoff. “So it’s true: women _are_ crazy.”

“We’re not!” said Jimmy, indignant. “I mean—you _know_ what I mean, and if you were thinking straight, _Mister_ Barrow, you would see that it’s the best idea in the world! You can be respectable—so respectable it _shocks_ everyone. We can have our own _bed_ in our own _cottage_ and we’ll be the only ones to ever know the truth. We’ll be pulling one over on all of Downton and Yorkshire and the _world_.” Jimmy looked delighted.

“But—“ Thomas’ head was reeling. “But why would _you_ want to—“

Jimmy dropped to his knees in front of Thomas. “Because I care about you more than I’ve ever—“ He stopped. He reached up and took Thomas’ left hand, ran his fingers over the gloved palm. “Because I love you.”

Thomas couldn’t speak. He was afraid to move. Jimmy was busy entwining Thomas’ fingers with his fingers; he squeezed them.

“Thomas Barrow,” he said in a soft voice, “I love you and I want to marry you. Will you have me?”

Thomas leaned down so that his head was nearly resting on Jimmy’s shoulder. His nose brushed the soft skin of Jimmy’s throat as he turned to whisper in his ear.

“Every night,” he said. “Every night, Jimmy Kent.”


	3. Chapter 3

Jimmy Kent awoke early on the day he was to wed Thomas Barrow with an unusually enthusiastic erection pressing into the bed.

Still foggy from sleep, he reacted at first without thinking, running a hand down his flank and taking a hold of himself. Only when the door banged open and Helen came stomping back inside did several notable factors make themselves apparent to him. He cut short his happy reunion with…himself and clutched at the sheets. 

“What are you doing still in bed? Worried he’s not going to let you get any rest tonight?”

He’d expected Helen might shriek; this was a bit wordier than he’d anticipated. Still clutching at his bedclothes, Jimmy rolled carefully to look at her. Nothing up top jiggled: even through his nightgown, he could feel the flat planes of his own, masculine chest. His cock had been startled into a much more quiescent state, but it was nevertheless very much _present_.

“Uh,” he said, in his own voice. “I don’t know what you…”

Helen scoffed. “Well, someone’s in for an education.” She put her toothbrush back in its cup and started undoing her hair from its braid. 

Jimmy stood up on shaky—hairy!—legs. He cleared his throat. “Helen,” he said. “Would you…would you turn and look at me, please?”

She sighed and glanced over her shoulder. “What?”

“You really…you’re sure you don’t see anything unusual about me?”

Her eyes rolled ceilingward. “Honestly, Jenny, I don’t know how you became convinced that you’re hiding something special under there. Don’t worry, your husband’s hardly going to be _shocked_.”

Jimmy licked his lips. “He might be a tad surprised.”

* * *

Thomas never thought he’d see the day, but Carson looked close to crying.

It was in a very Carson-like way, of course—no actual tears were involved—but he seemed skittish and unsettled, his hands unusually busy. He kept coming up and brushing invisible lint off the shoulders of Thomas’ suit as they waited in the vestry. “I, uh, I just want you to know, Mr. Barrow, that I am quite—that I see this as an eminently positive change you’re making in your life, a series of improvements I never expected from you. After all these years you do surprise me. And I hope it pleases you to know that I am pr—that I quite approve.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Carson,” Thomas said, feeling a smile slide across his face. “But I’m not doing it for your approval.”

Then he stood up at the front of the church to be married.

It was hard not to laugh. He knew it was supposed to be a profound, even solemn, moment, but he looked out at the faces of everyone from Downton—the family, too, had _deigned_ to attend—and he felt a bizarre urge to shock them all one last time by bursting into peels of laughter. To think that he had almost done this, even in part, to please them! To _join_ them—to be one of them. It seemed absurd. All of it: that he was here, that he was marrying Jimmy, that Jimmy was a _woman_ who wanted to marry him. A few months ago he’d been injecting poison into his veins and now his wrists were covered by the pressed, diligently lint-free fabric of his wedding suit and he was watching his bride come up the aisle. 

Thomas smiled broadly, and though he didn’t know it, that proved enough of a shock to everyone. 

But the real shock was yet to come. Jimmy reached the front of the church and came to a halt across from him. He was wearing the ivory dress that Thomas knew Anna had altered for him, but she appeared to have done a less than stellar job: it looked like it was hanging on him very oddly. Nevertheless, Thomas could see that he was smiling broadly beneath the gauzy fabric of his veil. 

Thomas grinned back. He hardly heard Reverend Travis as he began to speak.

“In the presence of God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—we have come together to witness the marriage of Thomas Barrow and Jane Essex, to pray for God’s blessing on them, to share their joy and to celebrate their love.”

The words washed over him. Thomas was too busy staring at Jimmy: staring openly, nakedly at Jimmy—in front of God and everyone.

“I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry to declare it now,” said the reverend.

No one said a word. Thomas could make out the mischievous expression on Jimmy’s face, his barely contained mirth. Both of them had to seize their bottom lips between their teeth.

“The vows you are about to take are to be made in the presence of God, who is judge of all and knows all the secrets of your hearts; therefore, if either of you knows a reason why you may not lawfully marry, you must declare it now.”

Thomas carefully schooled his face into a neutral expression. Fortunately, his work had given him plenty of practice. 

Reverend Travis turned to look at him. “Thomas, will you take Jane to be your wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honor and protect her, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?”

Thomas felt like his heart was about to burst. He didn’t feel like laughing anymore. “I will.”

“Jane, will you take Thomas to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”

“I will,” said Jimmy, in an oddly husky voice. 

“Heavenly Father, by your blessing, let this ring be to Thomas and Jane a symbol of unending love and faithfulness, to remind them of the vow and covenant which they have made this day, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen,” said the reverend.

The congregation echoed him. “Amen.”

With only slightly shaking hands, Thomas reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring he had bought Jenny in York. It was simple: a slim band of engraved platinum with a delicate wreath design. He worried suddenly that it would not be to Jimmy’s taste, but Jimmy held his hand out happily, almost smugly. There was a worrisome moment when the ring seemed to encounter resistance, like it wasn’t going to fit on Jimmy’s finger, but then it slid home. 

“Jane, I give you this ring as a sign of our marriage. With my body I honor you, all that I am I give to you, and all that I have I share with you, within the love of God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”

“Thomas,” said Jimmy, still husky, “I receive this ring as a sign of our marriage. With my body I honor you, all that I am I give to you, and all that I have I share with you, within the love of God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”

Their hands stayed clasped as Reverend Travis turned and addressed the crowd. “In the presence of God and before this congregation, Thomas and Jane have given their consent and made their marriage vows to each other. They have declared their marriage by the joining of hands and by the giving and receiving of this ring. I therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife. Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder. Amen.”

“Amen.”

“You may kiss the bride.”

 _There_ , thought Thomas, _I have permission from a reverend now and everything_. Jimmy stepped forward, and Thomas lifted the veil from his face.

For a moment, Thomas could only stare. He was Jimmy. He was really and truly, _honestly_ Jimmy. His beautiful golden Ganymede, with his glittering eyes and impish smile. Jimmy, who hadn’t bothered to shave this morning before putting on his wedding dress, and so had a faint trace of blond stubble on his cheeks. His gorgeous, dear, one and only Jimmy Kent.

No one else in the church was reacting with shock and horror. Reverend Travis was right in front of them, and unless he’d suddenly gone blind as a bat, he could clearly see Jimmy as well as Thomas, but still he was only smiling beneficently and perhaps wondering why Thomas wasn’t getting on with things. So Thomas put a hand on Jimmy’s firm, straight (lace-covered) waist and kissed him soundly on the mouth.

And was applauded for it.

* * *

“Get me out of this thing.”

Lord Grantham’s wedding gift was the promised cottage—finished and _painted_ —and the second they were safely ensconced inside, door bolted, curtains drawn, Jimmy was wiggling out of his dress.

“Well, _someone’s_ certainly not beating around the bush.”

“ _Someone_ hasn’t been wearing a dress all day.”

“I could never carry it off half so well as you.”

Jimmy’s face folded into a frown. “And I suppose I’ll keep having to—forever. If they all still see Jenny and not Jimmy…”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Thomas—slowly, sinuously—was shedding his suit jacket. Jimmy tried not to stare, then remembered he could stare all he liked. “If…whatever it is fools them so, you might be surprised what you can get away with.”

 _There_ was the sly Thomas Jimmy knew and—yes, loved. “You’re enjoying this. Pushing the boundaries of civilized decorum.”

“Yes,” said Thomas, simply. He stepped up to Jimmy and took him by the elbow. “We’re _married_.”

Somehow he made the word sound sinful—decadent and even rebellious. Maybe for them, that’s what marriage was. Jimmy nodded, shivering a little, half in and half out of his lace. “You’re my husband,” he said, and shivered again, deliciously this time. “And I’m your wife.”

Thomas smirked—the sincerest smirk Jimmy had ever seen. “I think I was supposed to carry you over the threshold.”

“You can carry me into the bedroom,” Jimmy suggested.

Despite the fact that it was his suggestion, he couldn’t help the surprised whoop of laughter when Thomas scooped him up. “Oof. You are an unusually large and heavy woman.”

He dropped Jimmy down onto the bed. Jimmy rolled with the bounce and flipped over onto his stomach. “It’s all muscle,” he said. “Help me with my buttons?”

There were about a million of them—tiny ones—which was a wedding night design flaw that Anna should really have been aware of. Thomas set-to with dexterity and diligence. Jimmy could feel him leaning over him, the weight of his hand on Jimmy’s back; he shivered again. Thomas hadn’t stopped being bigger than he was. Jimmy knew he had to take care of Thomas—watch over him, keep him from doing anything idiotic to himself—but it was surprisingly nice to know that Thomas could protect him, too. Could and had—and would again, no doubt, when Jenny Essex got arrested for wearing one of Jimmy Kent’s suits out on the street.

It was like a splash of cold water, icy across his happiness. Thomas knew him, and loved him—the real him—but to the rest of the world, it looked like he really was going to be stuck being Mrs. Barrow for good.

He didn’t want to sound bitter. He understood the price he was paying, and what he was paying it for. Still, he couldn’t help but say, “I can’t believe, after all this, I have to go back to being a housemaid.”

Thomas’ fingers stilled against Jimmy’s back. He coaxed Jimmy to flip around and sit up, then knelt beside him at the edge of the bed. “Not forever, I promise. I said I’d run away with you and I meant it.”

“But,” said Jimmy, “our cottage…”

“Well, I do think we should enjoy it for a little while.”

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “And by enjoy it, you mean stick around and gloat.”

“Exactly,” said Thomas. “But after that, I think we will have made our point. I’ll go anywhere with you—with Mrs. Barrow, or with Jenny Essex disguised as a man…”

“A man, ensorcelled to look like a woman, dressed as a man,” said Jimmy; it was too ridiculous not to laugh. “What an act. We should head straight to Vaudeville.” 

“If you like,” said Thomas, easily. He leaned up and kissed Jimmy on the mouth. “You ensorcelled _me_ ,” he whispered, “the first moment I saw you.”

“Really?” said Jimmy, dryly. “Which time?”

“Both,” Thomas said. “But speaking of reunions, I wager there’s a fellow you’ve long been missing…”

He cupped a hand to Jimmy’s lace-covered crotch. Jimmy’s cock rose to meet Thomas’ hand, straining painfully against his underclothes. “I’ve wanted for a while to introduce you,” Jimmy barely managed to pant. “Oh, Thomas, please…”

“Patience, Mrs. Barrow.” Thomas flipped Jimmy over again and made hasty work of the rest of his buttons.

Finally he shed the dress, like a snake sliding free from its skin. Jimmy shuddered: he felt strange and exposed, lying on the bed in his silk underthings with Thomas looming over him. He threw an arm over his eyes. “I must look ridiculous.”

Thomas leaned up and kissed his wrist. “You’re beautiful. My lovely wife…with his lovely prick…”

He felt the warmth of Thomas’ breath first—and then his mouth, through the fabric. Jimmy gasped, his hips surging up. “Mmm,” said Thomas, licking along the outline of Jimmy’s cock, “that’s more like it. Although, granted, the other way wasn’t half bad.” He waited until Jimmy was peeking out from under his arm before grinning sloppily. “Perhaps you’ve given me a taste for it.”

“Am I going to have to watch you around the other housemaids?”

“Yes, I think that should be my next reinvention. After Thomas Barrow: Married Man, Thomas Barrow: Notorious Womanizer.”

“How about—Thomas Barrow: Faithful and Attentive Husband?” Jimmy sank his fingers into Thomas’ hair and pushed his head back down. It was something he already knew he liked.

Thomas obviously liked it too, and unlike their encounter in the guest bedroom, with this particular equipment he was a master. He wet the silk around Jimmy with his tongue until it was clinging to his cock, then pulled the band down so only the head was exposed. He kissed it, lavishing attention on the glans and only slowly easing the constriction of Jimmy’s underthings off the rest of him. Thomas had barely sucked the head of Jimmy’s cock into his mouth before Jimmy trembled and shot—embarrassingly fast. Thomas kept sucking as he swallowed, his gloved hand rubbing along Jimmy’s thigh soothingly. “I’m sorry,” Jimmy gasped. “I’m sorry.” 

“We’re just getting started,” Thomas said. He looked strangely sated for someone who had merely got to put his mouth on Jimmy’s cock for a few minutes. He climbed up the bed and lay down beside Jimmy. “Let’s get you out of these things.”

“What about you?” asked Jimmy, indignantly. Thomas was still wearing his shirt and waistcoat and trousers and _everything_ , practically.

“My underclothes are much less interesting to look at,” he said, but Jimmy frowned at him until Thomas sighed and started undoing his tie. 

“No,” said Jimmy, “let me. Let me help you like a good wife,” he added, smirking.

“Are you going to fetch my slippers?” 

“I’ll bring them to you in my _mouth_ if you keep doing _that_ with yours,” Jimmy said, not entirely sure if he was kidding.

“Marriage is a glorious institution,” said Thomas, looking up toward the beamed ceiling. “How come nobody told me?”

Jimmy kissed him. He kissed him and helped roll his shirt off his broad shoulders. Jimmy experienced an odd moment, feeling the first press of Thomas’ hairy chest against his own smoother one—he was in bed with a _man_. He’d gone and married a man and, and—and he was growing hard again, pressing his length up against Thomas’ thick, hairy thighs. “Oh, god,” Jimmy said. “Thomas—“

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Thomas said. “But seeing as it’s our wedding night…”

“You can fuck me,” Jimmy said on a rough exhale of breath. “You can…you can bugger me, oh god, Thomas, please—“ 

Jimmy could feel Thomas’ breath hitch. “That sounds wonderful. I want to. I will. But—oh, Jimmy—I was—tonight I was hoping I could beg my sweet and dutiful wife’s indulgence, and convince him to bugger _me_.”

Jimmy was rock hard again and thrusting helplessly against Thomas’ belly. “Well, twist my arm,” he said. “How—how do I—?”

He pushed Jimmy back against the bed. “Let me show you.”

Nothing in Jimmy’s life so far had prepared him for the sight of Thomas Barrow kneeling over him, spearing himself on his own fingers and making quite a show of it, his own thick, hard cock jutting up against his belly. Jimmy wrapped his hand around it like an old friend and started to stroke, which had the delightful consequence of throwing Thomas off his demonstrative rhythm. He had to bow forward and brace himself against the bed, gasping. “Jesus, Jimmy, wait—“

“I’m so hard for you,” Jimmy said, releasing Thomas to caress his own cock.

“Yes, my pretty wife. You can have me.” He moved Jimmy’s hand away and positioned himself. Then Jimmy was sinking into impossible heat and tightness. He grabbed for Thomas’ hand and Thomas held him as he bore down, as he started to move. Jimmy watched Thomas’ expression of intense concentration melt away into something else, something light and full of pleasure.

Jimmy loved him so much like this—when he was messy and open and not at all put together—when he was all Jimmy’s and no one else’s. He brought his knees up to cradle Thomas’ back as Thomas rode him, hard and then more slowly and then harder again, so the pleasure came in peaks and waves. Jimmy felt like he was going to shoot again at any second. “Touch—touch yourself,” he begged, and so Thomas did, jerking his hand roughly over his own cock until he shuddered and clenched around Jimmy. 

Jimmy lost himself, then—he made some sound and thrust up wildly into Thomas, whose spine was bent under his hand like a bow. Then he was aware of the warm, sticky mess of Thomas’ seed all across his belly, and Thomas lying panting beside him for a moment before getting up and returning with a damp cloth.

Jimmy was running his fingers through Thomas’ come with a certain childlike fascination. He looked up and gave Thomas his best serious expression. “I think you knocked me up,” he said. He prodded at the skin just above his belly button. “It’s true, I can feel it taking root…”

Laughing, Thomas lay down beside him and started gently to clean him off. Jimmy, impatient, rolled over, trapping Thomas’ hand between them. He took Thomas by the shoulder and kissed him, by the back of the neck and kissed him, by the cheek and kissed him. “I would, though,” he found himself saying. “If I could I’d have your child, Thomas.”

Thomas’ eyes went wide and dark; his whole body trembled beneath Jimmy’s hand. Then he was murmuring, nearly incoherent: “Oh, my sweet, darling Jenny, my beautiful, brave Jimmy, my love, my love—“

Jimmy clutched him tight. “I’m yours,” he said. “Before God, you’re mine and I’m yours.”

He looked up into Thomas’ flushed, happy face and felt a shared sense of belonging and ease melt through his body. “And none,” swore Jimmy, “may ever put us asunder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wedding ceremony is adapted/heavily abbreviated from the one on the CoE's website.


End file.
